Cabin in the Woods
by Lasympathetique
Summary: Companion fic to "Dead and Buried". Stan Marsh is fifteen in a world ravaged by zombies. He tries mostly keeps to himself and avoids getting too friendly with strangers. In this world, it's kill or be killed. But you never know what, or who, you'll stumble upon.


The air was cool and unsettlingly quiet as Stan hiked through the misty forest. He was unfamiliar with these parts, where trees grew thick and wet, dewy leaves brightly green. The loose earth was dark and fertile, and Stan lost his footing more than a couple of times as it shifted beneath him. He was used to a solid, sun-baked crust, or else thick, clumping snow packed tight and impossible to run through.

But herds of the undead had him dancing and scurrying about the continent, like a rabbit hounded by wolves. Every city, town, whatever scrap of civilization he found was ravaged by the disease, with fresh victims stiffly wandering the streets. It was always a gamble, deciding what to risk. Should he brave the undead hoard, or go the next week without food? Both of these could very well be the thing to kill him, and the trick was figuring out which was more likely to get him first. There were times when Stan's hands trembled and his heart beat raw in his chest, legs stumbling to carry him, and he knew he was more likely to survive charging headstrong into a dead city than he was going another few days without sustenance. It was all about priorities.

Here, in the shelter of trees, Stan found himself with the rare opportunity to catch his breath and think. _Where can I find food? Water? Fuck, my feet fucking hurt_. He wondered if this wet forest would be a safe place to spend the night. Mustering the will, Stan quickened his pace. He didn't hear any bone-chilling groans, but he could hear anything else either. The forest was silent as a tomb.

_No, wait_

There _was_ something, off in the distance. A muffled thud so soft Stan thought it was a trick on his ears. But the sound beat in repetition like a drum, every few seconds.

_Shick_

_Thud _

_Shick _

_Thud_

Stan followed it. The pattern was too consistent to be some naturalness cause. It was meticulous, intentional. _Human_

Keeping low, Stan crept forward. Whoever was making the noise, he had no way of knowing if they would be friendly or want to kill him. Maybe both. A healthy amount of was instilled in Stan in the past years, only growing with time. These days, everyone was a stranger, and whenever Stan wasn't actively repressing the notion, he missed South Park. _Friendly faces everywhere_

It grew louder, and Stan darted behind a thick trunk when he saw the man. Short and strongly built, with messy brown hair that stuck up in tufts, dressed in dark cargos tucked into thick lace-up boots, a tight fitting sweater and black gloves. The noise, Stan realized, was the sound of the man sinking a shovel into the ground, loosing fresh dirt and heaving it over his shoulder. His back was turned, allowing Stan to creep closer. Maybe the man had some food on him.

A familiar smell wafted over, and Stan froze. It suddenly made sense, some dude digging a hole out in the middle of a forest. He was making a grave, for the pale boy with marble eyes at his feet.

At the sight of the corpse Stan stiffened. Bite marks scarred its purplish skin, weeping blood and pus, and sharp blue veins cracked over its face like lighting. Bloated, reeking of disease. _It must be at least two or three days infected_, Stan realized with a dark chill. _And the dude's just burying it? Doesn't he know?_

Apparently not.

The body stirred. Blue fingers curled into the dirt, and it stiffly pushed itself up, like a broken puppet. The boy kept digging, unaware. It rose, took a slow step for him.

Stan pulled his baseball bat out from his backpack like a sword from its sheath and advanced. He would deal with the stranger once the zombie was out of the way. When the dead were around, it didn't matter if the other guy was trying to stick a blade through your ribs. If you were breathing, you were allies.

Leaves crackled beneath his feet. The stranger whipped around, clutching the shovel offensively, and Stan was surprised. It was just a kid, maybe fourteen or fifteen, about the same age as himself. Eyes like a forest at night, and light brown skin that was splattered with sickly black and red when Stan bashed his bat into the newborn zombie's blonde hair.

_Crunch_

It sagged over with a final thud. Stan gave it another good whack for good measure, cracking the skull and leaving a visible dent. He huffed.

"You gotta get the brain."

The boy stared at him. His face was permanently angry, with prominent eyebrows and a snarling mouth. Now, it curled down even more, and the boy clutched his shovel out in front of him.

"Who are you?"

"Who are _you_?" Stan challenged.

The boy didn't answer.

"He got bit, what, two days ago?" Stan nudged the zombie with the toe of his boot. "Three?"

"Two." The boy spat. He scowled and wiped his nose on his sleeve. "Don't touch him"

"Dude, literally everyone knows to get the head. What the fuck were you even doing?"

"Fuck you."

"Was he your friend?" Stan asked more quietly. "It's tougher, when it's someone you know."

The boy stiffened. "It's none of your fucking business."

"Okay, okay, that's fine. You got food?"

The boy flickered in surprise, then narrowed. "No," he said deliberately.

Stan lifted his bat. "Now, see, I know you're lying."

The kid raised his shovel. The end was flat metal, bound to do some damage, but the skinny end was wood. Stan's bat could break that thing to splinters. This boy was strong, average height, which was taller than Stan. That meant he was slower. And he was alone. _Good_. But as Stan stepped forward, dizziness overwhelmed him.

Stan had a natural prowess for fighting, honed with years of practice. But he was very hungry, almost faint. He lowered his bat. _You lucky bastard_

"I'm Stan."

The kid frowned in confusion. "So?"

"So that's my name. What's yours?"

Again, the boy said nothing. Stan groaned internally. He was going to have to do some serious cozying if he wanted anywhere near this kid's food.

"I'm sorry about your friend. You were digging him a grave, right?"

"Go away."

"That's cool. Not the dead part," Stan scrambled, "but the ritual, it's kinda nice. You see tons of bodies, not too many graves."

The boy frowned. "He...will be remembered like a man. Not left to rot like a dog. I won't allow this."

It was just now the boy had spoken enough for Stan to catch a hint of an accent, guttural 'r's and pronouncing _this _like _thees_. It was heavily watered in American, but came through when the boy's voice was thick with emotion.

Stan decided to leave it for now. Mystery dude was just starting to open up, no need to be an asshole and ruin it with personal questions. "Who was he?" Stan ventured.

"Gary. My friend."

"I'm sorry."

"You did not know him."

"Well, no," Stan agreed reluctantly. "But I had friends too. Once."

He glanced at the boy, trying to read his perpetually angry face. It was softened somewhat, and now he only looked slightly disturbed.

"I am Christophe."

"Chris," Stan smiled.

"No." The scowl was back. "Christophe."

"Okay, Christophe. Nice to meet you."

"You want food."

"I ran out a few days ago," Stan lied. He's eaten yesterday morning, the final bits of some scrawny rabbit, but Stan wanted sympathy. "I'm very hungry."

Christophe squinted at him. "You hit hard for a hungry man."

"I'm stronger than I look. Besides-" Stan tread carefully, "I did save your life, just now. So maybe, you could give me just enough to get me to the next town, and I'll leave?"

Christophe mulled it over. His eyes glanced over the steel bat, the heavy pack on Stan's back. "Fine." _Smart kid_. "You get the food, you get the fuck out. But first, I'm burying my brother."

"I thought he was your friend."

"We were not blood, but there are stronger...what is it..." Christophe muttered to himself, searching for the word. "...bonds. Stronger bonds. For all this matters, he was my family." His eyes turned mournful as he regarded the corpse, crooked and swollen. Stan could almost see something break behind them. He didn't know what to say. His family was long gone. _Shove it down, Marsh_

"Sorry."

Christophe didn't reply, but regripped his shovel and thrust the blade into the hole of dirt.

Stan watched him for a long time it seemed, sweat pouring as Christophe shoveled the dirt, each swing growing heavier as the hole deepened. He couldn't think of any conversation, nor did it seem like Christophe wanted any. Finally, the grave was big enough for a body. The two boys lifted Greg's body and eased it down, cradling it in the wet earth. Together they kicked the dirt back in, Christophe with his shovel, Stan with the side of his boot. When the hole was full, Christophe packed the earth down with the blade of his shovel.

"He will rest in peace."

Stan nodded. "Right."

"Okay." Christophe turned to Stan. "Come with me, get food, go."

"Yeah," Stan agreed. "I can do that."

Suddenly Christophe advanced, and before Stan knew it they were nose-to-nose. Christophe's body heat emanated like a furnace, and a smoky scent permeated the air. "But you will not fuck with me. Not my people. Not my food. You are smart. But so am I. I warn you now, Stan," Christophe's eyes narrowed, tired lines crinkling. "Do not try to fuck me."

Stan looked Christophe square in the eye. "Wouldn't dream of it." _So fucking hungry_

Christophe led Stan through the forest, making sharp turns every few steps that Stan struggled to follow. He smacked into trees, sharp branches caught his clothes and scraped his skin. Ahead of him, Christophe moved quietly through the trees. He was far from graceful, but his movements had a quality of practice to them. Stan felt like an elephant in comparison. He studied the boy's steps, how he lifted each foot completely of the ground and pressed it back down toe to heel, guarding with his forearms against spider webs or whipping branches. Very balanced, very sure of himself. Stan tried to imitate. It felt very awkward at first, this new way of moving, but Stan was determined to learn. Especially if he was to get out of this strange forest in one piece.

"Where are we, anyways?" asked Stan.

"Shh."

"Dude," Stan tried again, lowering his voice. "Are there zombies here?"

"Not here. Bears."

"How did your friend get bit?"

"He was in the city, trying to get medicine."

Stan was surprised. "You got a sick guy in your group?"

Christophe went into a stony silence. "We're in British Columbia."

"What?"

"Canada."

"Oh." Stan felt queer. He didn't realize he had traveled so far.

After a while, Christophe flung out his arm and caught Stan's chest. "We're here."

There was a small clearing completely surrounded by trees, a bubbling creek running past an old log cabin. Thick green grass sprouted from the ground, pleasant and springy. No sound expect for the rushing of water, the gently breeze through the blades of grass. It was a quiet paradise.

It could also be a trap. Stan eyed the cabin suspiciously. There were no windows, just a wooden door on ancient hinges. "How many people did you say you had?"

"Five." Christophe's face darkened. "Four, I mean."

"Are they all your age?"

Christophe walked toward the cabin. "Come and find out. You will not find the food out here."

"Okay, I'm coming," said Stan, palms tingling. Christophe might be angry and unpleasant, but there was an air of honour to him. It didn't seem likely that the boy would lead Stan into a trap, but Stan kept his guard up. The others might not be so accommodating, especially when they found out Christophe had promised their food to a stranger. _Honourable, but not the sharpest tool in the shed_

The door opened and a boy walked out. He had bright gold hair that was nearly parted and smoothed to his head, mature, angular face, and a sparkling grin that faded when he saw Stan.

"Christophe, who is this?" he asked mildly, smooth as a snake. Stan distrusted him instantly.

"Stan," Christophe grumbled. "He's getting food, then leaving."

"And why are we giving this stranger our food?" On the surface the boy was collected, but something venomous stirred beneath his words.

Christophe scowled, or perhaps he was thinking. It all looked the same to Stan. "Gary turned. He almost bit me, but Stan stopped him. He saved my life, and I will not have a debt. Food will fix that."

"I was under the impression that you were…taking care of Gary."

Christophe bowed his head. "I...thought I could do it. I had hoped he would sleep until the grave was done, but he woke."

The boy closed his eyes and sighed. "Christophe. We do not have an excess of supplies that you can just promise away."

"Please," Stan tried. "I haven't eaten in-"

"I'm not talking to you." The words were clipped and casual, like he was dismissing a dog. Stan clenched his teeth and swallowed his words. _Motherfucker_

"Greg," said Christophe. "He is a survivor too. And it is growing dark."

Christophe glance at the setting sun, then at Stan. "Is it true? You saved Christophe's life."

Stan forced himself to remain polite. "Yeah, uh, the kid –Gary- turned while Christophe was digging. He didn't notice, and it's not like I was going to let it get him, right?"

"How considerate of you." The boy, Greg, spoke so coolly, it was impossible to tell if he was being sincere. Stan didn't know how to respond.

Thankfully he didn't have to. Greg motioned for him to come inside with a flick of his wrist. Stan followed, unease twisting his gut.

Greg closed the door neatly behind them. "You might as well stay the night," he said. "These woods are dangerous at night, especially to the uninitiated."

Stan swallowed. He didn't like that offer so much, but there was no way to refuse it without rousing trouble. And he was hungry.

Inside the cabin was a single room, cramped, but surprisingly cozy. A bed was tucked in the corner, draped with warm furs. The wooden floor was rough, but clean. An old rocking chair sat opposite the bed, decorated with floral cushions. It was all very simple, but kept and polished.

"Hey Christophe, who's this?" a friendly voice asked.

Lying on the bed were two more boys. The speaker was a small boy with yellow hair that grew in loose curls, tickling his shoulders. His smile twitched nervously on his face. Stan couldn't see the other boy's face, it was buried into a pillow.

"Is he a friend of yours?" the nervous boy asked again.

"No," said Christophe. "This is Stan. He's staying the night. He saved my life."

The boy's eyes went wide. "What? What happened?"

"Gary turned."

"O-oh. But I thought you were gonna-"

"I didn't. No more talk of it, please."

"Okay, sure thing," the boy backed down easily. Lessening the tension in the room, he refocused on Stan and gave a small smile. "I'm Bradley. What's your name?"

"Stan."

"It's nice to meet you. We don't really see any other teenagers out here, so I mean that."

"Uh, thank you," Stan said stiffly. This kid Bradley seemed like an honestly nice person. A bit shy, but Stan was grateful for that. He didn't want to be bombarded with questions tonight.

"How old are you?"

"Eighteen," Stan lied.

Bradley's eyebrows went up. "Oh… I thought you might be around our age."

"How old are you?"

"Fifteen," he answered easily. "Well, Gregory's gonna be sixteen in a few days."

Stan almost laughed. "Gregory?"

Gregory regarded him coldly. "Yes, that's my name. You have a problem with it?"

"No, no dude, it's just…it's so fancy."

"You don't seem to find Christophe as amusing."

"Well, that's different," Stan shrugged, beginning to feel awkward. "'Cause he's, like, French or something." He shot a worried glance at Christophe. "I'm only guessing, dude."

"No, no, you are right."

"Well," Gregory continued, "I'm originally from England. Maybe your American mind isn't as accustomed to names with more than two syllables. _Stan_."

Stan shrugged. "Maybe." _Maybe you're a fucking dick_

Gregory frowned slightly, disappointed he didn't get the rise he wanted. Stan exhaled silently, willing himself to stay collected. _Food, they have food_

"This is Thomas, by the way," Bradley broke the stiff silence, his voice cracking. "He's asleep, but when he wakes up, we'll introduce you."

"Sounds good," said Stan, falsely bright.

He really didn't like the game this Bradley kid was playing. The other two were simple, easy to fool. Stan had them sussed immediately. Gregory was an arrogant asshole, so high up on his own fumes that he forgot other people had functioning brains too. Christophe was tougher, because he appeared to be actually very morally decent. But he was hot-headed enough to start a fight and strong enough to fight back. Bradley…was nice. And maybe this Thomas kid was nice too. Stan groaned internally. He went over the plan. _Wait until everyone's asleep. Find the food. Take the food. Kill if necessary. _Stan swallowed. Gregory would be the easiest. He could justify Christophe, in the long run. That boy was strong, Stan knew he'd be brutal in combat. _I'll just knock Bradley out or something_

"So," Christophe's husky voice broke Stan's thought. "Normally, we eat now. You are hungry now?"

"I'm always hungry."

Christophe nodded shortly, left the cabin, and returned with two cans of food. "We eat half of one can, each of us," he explained. "You will eat my share."

Stan took the can offered to him, some sort of chili mix. "You keep the food outside?"

"It's none of your concern where we keep it," Gregory informed him icily. "If I was you, I'd be grateful I was receiving anything at all, considering I would be outnumbered."

"Should I wake Thomas?" Bradley asked, catching the soup Christophe threw at him.

"No, let him sleep. The new medication makes him drowsy."

Curiosity tingled over Stan. "What's wrong with him?"

For some reason, Bradley stiffened. "Nothing is _wrong_ with him."

"Well, if he's on medication, there's something going on," Stan reasoned, ignoring Gregory's look as he slipped the switchblade out of his pocket and pried the can open. "And I don't wanna catch whatever he's got."

"It's not contagious."

"Dude," Stan raise his hands defensively, "I don't give two shits if it's, I don't know, cancer. I just wanna know whether or not I'm in danger. Since you so _generously_," he arched a brow at Gregory, "offered to let me spend the night, I'm here for the long stretch. I'm just covering my bases."

Bradley chewed the inside of his cheek, clearly troubled. "It's not my information to give."

Gregory rolled his eyes. "It's really not that big a deal, Bradley. He has Tourette's."

Stan wrinkled his nose. "What?"

"Tourette's Syndrome. Don't they teach anything at these American schools? It's a neurological disorder characterized by uncontrollable verbal or physical tics."

Stan had never heard of the disorder. He tried to picture it, but anything his brain came up with was too silly to believe. "Like, his eye twitches or something?"

"No, Thomas exhibits primarily verbal tics. It's like a sneeze."

"He…can't control his sneezing?"

"No," said Gregory, putting up a show of exasperation. "It's _like _a sneeze. What he can't control is his swearing."

"Oh," Now that was a strange picture. Stan decided against prying further, especially with the territorial glare Bradley was shooting at him. Besides, he'd hear it when Thomas woke. "But it doesn't affecting his fighting or anything?"

"Yes and no," Christophe chimed in. "He is very quick, very clever. But he is loud when he means not to be. A survivor like you can imagine how that would be a trouble, especially with _le mort vivant, _the walking dead."

Stan nodded knowingly, and scooped a handful of beans to his mouth. Cold and slimy, they slipped through his fingers easily, but each scoop was beyond delicious. As he reached for more, Gregory made a noise of disgust in the back of his throat.

"Don't just scoop it out, pour it into your hand for Christ's sake. I'm eating from there."

"Sorry, dude," said Stan, not feeling sorry at all. He upended the final bits of his share, then reluctantly passed the half-empty can to Gregory.

For a while there was no sound except for the tinny scrapes of metal and soft chewing. Stan sat and rested his head against the wall, keeping his backpack on his lap, straps still on. His baseball bat he kept beside him, fingers touching the cool steel in case someone tried to pilfer it while he rested. His throat ached for water, but Stan disciplined himself. _They'll bring it out eventually, you can drink then. _

It shocked Stan only for a second when tears started streaming down Bradley's flushed face. _Right, Gary. The kid that died two fucking days ago. Good timing, Marsh. _He didn't say anything, but began studying the others in a manner he hoped was discreet. Christophe glared at a spot on the floor, arms folded, jaw set. Either about to punch something hard or start sobbing. Bradley set down the soup can, staring with despair into its watery contents. Even Gregory wasn't completely ice. Like Stan, he was observing the others, but concern wrinkled his brow. It smoothed away when he caught Stan's eye.

"Are you thirsty?"

Stan nodded, surprised. He had expected a confrontation.

"Come with me."

Stan followed Gregory outside, trepidation stirring in his gut. He'd left his bat inside, not wanting his distrust for the boy to be painfully obvious. He also didn't want to provoke anything prematurely.

Kneeling by the rushing creek, Gregory cupped his hands beneath the water and brought it to his lips, sipping as it trickled through his fingers. Stan watched him warily.

"Uh, you just drink the river water?"

"It's clean," Gregory assured him. "You see those rushes and lilies? They're natural water-purifiers. And we drop stones into the riverbed, to stop the dirt from rising up."

Slowly Stan imitated Gregory's movements and drank. It tasted cool and fresh, but there was a grassy aftertaste that made Stan want to spit.

"We're going to stay out here for a while," Gregory said suddenly.

Stan nodded. He understood.

Gregory's eyes flashed up and captured Stan's, a warm honey. "I'll tell you now, so you aren't upsetting anyone else with inappropriate questions. Gary was bit two days ago, getting medicine for Thomas. We brought him back here alive, but he went unconscious after a while."

The story sounded very familiar. "You get a fever and go under," said Stan. "The virus attacks your brain while the rest of you shuts down. It takes a day for your heart to stop. Then…you come back."

"How do you know all this?"

"American schooling," Stan deadpanned. "No, uh, I've met other survivors. People who knew scientists, researchers, government officials even. There are loads of theories out there, but that one's the most common. And anyways, it doesn't even really matter. After you get bit, it's all the same."

Gregory sighed. His honey eyes were weary. "None of us were really prepared for it. I suppose we all thought we were invincible, and getting bitten was something that only happened to other people. For three years we've survived in this cabin, Stan. We've been incredibly lucky. It's only a day's walk to the nearest city, but we're so hidden by the trees that our only threats for the longest time were the local bears. But Thomas…

He was getting worse, and I was worried he'd attract unwanted visitors. We'd exhausted the closest pharmacies of effective drugs, so Gary suggested we venture further. The deeper into the city we went, the more zombies there were. But Gary saw an opening, and ran for it. He got the medicine, and he got bit. More than once. I managed to get him home, but…we knew it was over." Gregory trailed off, a sad smile drawn on his face. "It's funny, it seems like such a long time ago. It was only yesterday."

Stan stared at the rushing water. It was so clear he could almost see the bedrock below, and his dim reflection was distorted by the current.

"Too much information, I know," said Gregory, "But I care about those people in that cabin. I care about them very deeply. And they're in pain. I want you to stay the night, keep to yourself, don't ask questions. And leave in the morning. You might be a survivor, but you're still an outsider."

Stan swallowed thickly. The word sent a sharp pang through his chest. _Outsider_

"And if you do anything to harm those people in here, I assure you, you will be sorry."

"Of course," agreed Stan. "I'd feel the same."

They watched the rushing creek together as dusk came, orange and pink comingling. A low buzzing stirred in the air, and soon Stan was slapping at mosquitos, itches crawling all over him.

"How much longer are we staying out here?"

Gregory cracked his neck. "I suppose we can go in now." He stood up and primly brushed himself off. "You stay here, I'll see how everyone's doing."

Stan watched Gregory disappear into the cabin. Then he leapt to his feet and began scouring the clearing for any signs of disturbance. Overturned dirt, bare patches in the grass, rock piles. Anything that could signify a hidden stash. He suspected the food store was underground, otherwise it would be fair game for the so-called bears everyone kept mentioning. Then again, bears could just be a fear tactic, encouraging Stan to comply with the group. These kids had survived a long time out in this remote cabin, Stan couldn't have been the first to stumble upon them.

A bright glint caught Stan's eye from beneath a pile of kindling. He pushed the wood aside to see a small flat panel covered in dirt. It looked like a floor tile someone had fitted into the earth, and when Stan knocked on it, hollowness resounded beneath it. He glanced behind him. Gregory could come out any minute. Stan quickly brushed dirt back over the tile and replaced the kindling, satisfaction rushing up inside him.

He'd just knelt back by the creek when Gregory stepped back out, splashing water on his face to look like he'd been drinking intermittently.

"Thomas is awake," Gregory informed him. "The last pill he took wore off, so he's in prime form. Don't say anything."

Stan nodded curtly. He might be a thief, but he wasn't an asshole.

Inside the cabin was substantially darker, as the sunlight no longer pierced through the thin slates between the logs that made up the roof. Christophe and Bradly had spread one of the furs over the floor, playing some sort of board game. Stan wasn't sure, but it looked like chess. The other kid, Thomas, was leaning over the end of the bed and watching intently. Dark circles blossomed beneath his eyes, and the corners of his thin lips twitched incessantly. He looked in desperate need of a good night's rest and a good meal. Thomas stole a curious glance at Stan before refocusing on the game.

"Bradley, move your _-cock-_ king. Christophe has -_shitcock- _checkmate."

"Thanks," Bradley grinned and deftly moved the marble piece. Christophe scowled at Thomas good-naturedly.

"What, are you a team now?"

"You're too good at chess, Christophe," teased Bradley.

"Me? You play Greg, tell me how good you think I am after."

Gregory smiled charmingly, reminding Stan more of a fairy tale prince than he'd like to admit. "Who do you think taught Christophe?"

Thomas perched himself up and cleared his throat. "I'm Thomas. You're -_shitdumbshit- _Stan, right?"

"Yeah, nice to meet you." _Great, he's nice too_

"Nice to meet you t-_asshole_-_"_ Thomas squeezed his eyes shut, releasing a frustrated sigh. "I'm not swearing at you, just so you -_fuckingshit- _know. It's the Tourette's."

"Hey dude, don't worry about it," Stan replied mildly.

"You play chess?" Bradley asked, toying with one of the smooth figures.

"Um, not really, I never really learned…"

"Here, I'll show you." Bradley scooted aside, patting the fur beside him. Reluctantly, Stan sat down. _Don't let yourself get too cozy, Marsh. Shove it down. They're strangers, just strangers._

"This," Bradley held up a handsomely white figurine, "is the Queen, probably the most important piece."

"Aside from the King," Gregory said pointedly.

"Aside from the King, of course…"

The game was much more intricate than Stan remembered, and he stumbled over which piece to move quite often. Bradley was an encouraging partner, kindly pointing out openings or explaining why Stan's latest play was a stupid one. Occasionally Gregory would comment, with a wry smile, that if Stan had moved his rook _here _instead of _there,_ he'd have checkmate. Christophe had the bad habit of reaching over the board and moving for Stan, assuming his own choices were obvious, and more often than not dug Stan into more trouble, as he'd have no idea what to do with the pieces once Christophe was finished. Thomas laughed and jeered at them from the bed, too caught up in the game to bother stifling his tics.

And Stan was having fun.

Dusk turned to night, but the cabin was rich with warmth. Laughter erupted when Stan successfully took Christophe's queen right from under his nose, and the boy was so shocked he burst into a string of French cusses. Stan smiled at him, unapologetic.

"Sorry dude, that's how the game goes."

"But you, you must have cheated!"

Bradley giggled. "Stan got you fair and square."

"Impossible!"

Stan danced the queen across the chess board, clicking the base against the smooth surface. "You're move."

"Fine..." Christophe scrutinized the board. Stan noticed that whenever he was deep in thought, Christophe pursed his lips like he was expecting a kiss. It was amusing to watch.

"Aha!" Christophe whipped his arm out and swept his rook across the board. "Check."

Bradley leaned over to whisper something in Stan's ear, but Stan waved him away. "I got this, I got this…Checkmate." He relished in the word, setting his bishop firmly on the board.

Christophe was so mortified Stan couldn't help but laugh. He heard laughter around him too, and it only tickled him further. Soon his belly was aching and his cheeks stiff, but he couldn't stop.

"It's not funny," Christophe protested, struggling not to smile. He failed largely, shaking his head at the others like they were the biggest fools in the universe.

Losing wind, Stan calmed down and caught his breath again. He felt warm inside, absently twirling the hairs from the fur blanket as the laughter died down.

Crickets chirruped from outside.

"I wish Gary was here," said Bradley.

Stan's breath hitched. He stared at the chess board.

_ "-stupidshit-"_

"We all do," said Gregory. Even though his words were soft, they filled the room.

Christophe sniffled loudly. "I beat him at chess three days ago."

"He didn't even _-shitfuck- _care when he lost," Thomas smiled faintly. "He was always so happy and -_asshole- _and upbeat. He always asked me how I was doing."

Bradley's lashes glistened with tears, dripping when his cheeks as he blinked. "I miss him."

"He believed in Heaven," said Gregory. "He was at peace when he died."

Bradley dried his face on his sleeve and nodded.

Lines furrowed in Christophe's brow. "If there is a heaven, if there is a God…how could he do this? How could that cocksucker take him from us?"

"I don't know," Bradley mumbled.

"If there is a _-cockcock- _Heaven, Gary's the first one in line." Thomas said with certainty. "He was a _good person_. Do you remember when he _-shitdumbshit- _told us he was allergic to peanut butter? We found a bunch in that warehouse, after like three days of starving, and he refused to eat a lick of it. And-" he grinned fondly, "and then we caught the big jerk eating peanut butter granola bars a few weeks later."

"He didn't know what we were freaking out about until we reminded him about it," Christophe added.

Gregory chuckled. "I remember. What a bloody saint that kid was."

"Oh, he was the worst kind of nice," exclaimed Christophe. "Always stuffing extra cans in his pockets, just in case he came across hungry strangers."

"He gave me his coat that time we were stranded in the city."

"Was that the winter stake-out, on the apartment roof?"

"Yeah. Every time I offered it back he'd wave me off, say he was fine. I mean," Bradley cracked a smile, "he was blue and shaking like a leaf, but he wouldn't budge an inch."

"That was one of my medicine trips, right?"

"Yep. Also his idea," said Bradley. "Because he was worried about spring, more zombies coming through after the thaw. It wasn't even that he was, like, worried about the group. He wanted _you_ to be safe."

Tears welled in Thomas' eyes, and he gave a watery smile. "Yeah."

Listening quietly, Stan swallowed the small lump in his throat. "He sounds like a good guy. I wish I could have met him."

"Yes," said Gregory. "You do."

Christophe nodded solemnly. "We are very lucky to have known Gary."

Bradley's eyes shone. "Yeah. We are."

"Do you remember the time he…."

The time flew by as everyone recounted different tales about Gary, so much so that Stan almost felt like he'd known the boy. Each story seemed to well up inside him, piecing together a little bit more of the boy whose brains he'd bashed in. Listening now, he didn't know if he would be able to do that a second time.

Thomas yawned, hugging a pillow.

"Do you want a pill, Thomas?" asked Gregory.

"Yeah -_cockshit_\- thanks."

"I'm going to bed too." Christophe stretched out on the fur blanket. "I'll take the floor."

"Me too." Gregory joined him.

"Alright, scooch Thomas," said Bradley tiredly. "Stan, do you want the floor or the bed?"

"Uh, it doesn't matter. Wherever's good."

Bradley patted the spot beside him. "Get up here, it's comfier. You've got one night here, you may as well."

Thomas was already snoring as Stan crawled in beside Bradley. The bed was just large enough for three bodies curled just the right way. It wasn't until he was on the verge of sleep that his instincts startled up in him.

_What the fuck are you doing? You don't know these guys. Get out, get food get out get out while you still can_

But the fur was silky and comforting, and it had been ages since Stan had slept on a real bed. He glanced at Bradley beside him, at Thomas hanging off the far end, the drugs rendering him completely unconscious. Something itched under Stan's skin. His throat closed up.

He closed his eyes and let the lulling snores ease him into sleep.

With morning came sickly feelings. Stan's backpack seemed impossibly heavy, even though there couldn't have been more than three pounds of food. His eyes widened when Gregory unload the cans and packets into his arms.

"Dude-this'll last me like three weeks."

"Yeah. I would've been inclined to give you enough for three days," Gregory said evenly. "But Gary would've given you half our supplies. This is the compromise."

"You saved my life, dude. Literally."

"Perfect," exclaimed Christophe. "My debt is paid."

"You know, you could stay another night if you wanted to," Bradley said quietly.

Iron chains tightened around Stan's chest. "I-I have to get going. I mean, you guys are, like, great."

He glanced at Thomas, who was still wrapped in furs fast asleep. "Those drugs really did a number on him."

"Yeah." Bradley shook Thomas gently. "He's out like a light."

Stan wanted to wait for Thomas to wake up, but something stopped him. He was almost angry with himself when the words came from his lips.

"I really do have to get going. Daylight's burning."

"Right," said Gregory curtly. "Of course."

The smell of rain was in the air when Stan stepped outside, a chill brushing over him. He turned around and regarded the three survivors all hanging by the doorway. His heart jumped when Bradley gave him a tight hug, even more as Christophe leaned in and tapped his cheek against Stan's, making a kissing noise in his ear. Weird, but Stan didn't mind it. Maybe it was like a hug in France or something.

Gregory was last, offering his hand. "Stay safe, Stan."

"You too."

Giving his hand a short, sharp shake, Gregory nodded his head.

There were no words that sprang into Stan's mind, just a harsh reluctance as Stan forced himself to release the handshake.

He turned around and started walking. He didn't let himself look behind him. He was afraid if he did, he might run back to the cabin and never leave.

* * *

So this was basically an excuse for me to include my favorite side characters from South Park in my story. I especially wanted to flesh out how Christophe and Gregory would fare, seeing as their both pretty hardcore individuals on their own. But I've got soft spots for Bradley and Thomas too. If you haven't seen their episodes, I highly suggest them!

And yeah, this one's bittersweet. But Stan's fifteen. He's not quite emotionally ready to face himself yet.

This is my "I'm sorry" for not updating the main story, Dead and Buried. If you haven't read that, this is just a companion piece that offers a little back story for the main character, Stan Marsh. If you liked this, you might like that too.

Thanks for reading, I really hope you guys enjoyed this fic. And thank you for your everlasting patience and understanding. I truly appreciate it.


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